Son of Fire
by nosmaeth
Summary: The Great Lord of Darkness once captured the blazing Son of Fire, and though the latter was later rescued by Fingon the Valiant, no one ever knew what had passed between Melkor and Maitimo. A collection of moments between the eldest son of Feanor and the eldest of the Valar.
1. Prologue

**_This story is set during the time Melkor captured Maedhros. Each chapter could also stand as an individual story, so it is wiser perhaps, to consider the whole thing as a collection of small moments, thoughts, symbols, memories, rather than a novel! Since the subject matter is not really full of fun, don't expect a light reading, but the rating will not go higher than it is now. It attempts to be more of a psychological torment than a verbalized, physical one. _**

**_I try my best to stick to canon and I usually succeed with it. If you find any mistakes though, please don't hesitate to tell me about them!  
It is "unbetaed", so I'd like to apologize for the possible grammar mistakes in advance!  
Oh, and please, enjoy! :)_**

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**Prologue**

"I am not afraid of you, foul thief!"  
But his bodiless captor only laughed a cold-cold laugh that made him crouch on the black stones, that sent shivers down his naked body, that caused him to whimper like a scared child, contradicting his own brave, but empty words.  
"_Your father said that too!"  
_Distant roar of fire, a sudden gust of heat announced the coming of a Balrog; a reminder of another life and another death, another pain, smoke and ash.  
As he raised his head slowly, his silver eyes mirrored the coming flames, and though glistening with tears of pain, his elven features were stern and powerful. Emptied, abused and abased, tortured and bled, the first-born son of Feanor stared down the great Lord of Darkness, the eldest of the Valar.  
"I am born of fire, pitiful creature of the Void! Do you really think I fear to burn?"

The scream of anger that answered him extinguished the roar of fire and when the cruel echo of Melkor's wrath faded, there was silence all around... The fire-demon disappeared, the air grew colder than ice, colder than soulless bodies, colder than dead heart.  
"_So be it! Flames need fuel to keep them burning, and it shall not be long before you become nothing more than a whisper of a smoke, a heap of ash, like your father, begging me to end your life!"  
_"I am not afraid of you!" he groaned determinedly still, but even his courage seemed to be frozen in the utter frost of Melkor's dark halls. He let his head drop once more on the stones, feeling their coldness against his bruised face.  
The touch he felt on his hair was almost gentle, the voice he heard was no more than a soft whisper.  
"_Perhaps not yet, child! But you shall, ere the end! You shall!"_


	2. Burning Dreams

**Burning Dreams**

The smithy had always been in his mind, lurking at the verge of his consciousness, waiting for the time in which it would surface and materialize as a thought. But it was several years before it even formed a desire, something he could name. And even then it was nothing more than a dream, a careless wish he had no intention to act upon. Whenever it would emerge from his subconscious, he banished the thought swiftly and efficiently. The smithy was no place for a child.

It took another year or so for him to question that rule, but now his musings were often longer and a great deal more uncertain. The smithy was no place for a child, true, but... But why?  
The answer was evident of course: Father forbade it. Only it wasn't true, not entirely.  
Neither Father, nor Mother spoke of entering the smithy. Ever. Yet somehow it was clear for all their children that the place was strictly forbidden. Why?  
But he decided, he needn't know the reason. His father's wish, even if not spoken out loud, was clearer than the light of Varda's jewels in the sky... He would not want anyone to go there. Not even Mother visited him there, not once.  
And Maedhros would sigh and search for something that could ease his heart.

But as times passed, as the desire grew stronger, he had found it more and more difficult to resist. Curiosity rooted deeply in his soul and nothing could chase it away now, save perhaps the peaceful songs of his brother, or the inspiring company of the beloved, valiant Fingon, for whom he dreamed of being better. With them, his heavy burden lifted for a while, only to creep back into his mind when they parted.  
There was no peace, no rest for him now, for Maedhros burned with desire, with an inherited fire that was stronger than he could ever hope to be. He had no means to control it, not anymore.

So long and unsettling was his ongoing, voiceless battle with the smithy that he started to lose sleep, started to grow weak and disturbed.  
Fingon tried to ask what was bothering him, concerned of his cousin's well-being, he asked over and over again without use, until even their strong bond seemed to be shaking under the strain, and he decided to leave Maedhros be with his troubles.

The eldest of son of Feanor was alone with his foe now, without the strength or the will to fight it, and so he looked for the moment in which an opportunity would present itself.  
He needed not to wait for long; never would Feanor have dreamed of anyone defying him, and so he did not bother to lock his doors. The forges of his greatness stood open, faintly still gleaming in the grey morning, slowly cooling after a night of long and hard work.

As its master left the smithy, Maedhros disengaged himself from the shadows and headed for the entrance. Before the great, black iron doors, he stopped. His heart drummed a valiant march against his ribs, his breathing was rapid and shallow. But the fire roared loudly inside him, defeating the remaining shreds of his resistance. He entered, and the heavy doors shut behind him with a surprising, unsettling softness.

Inside, there was darkness. No natural light could creep in here, and no light would have desired to do so. This was the realm of coal, metal and fire, no place for any living thing to be.  
Maedhros felt this. He stood there silently, denying his own fright, denying himself the chance to run and leave this darkness, to find some place where he could remember how to breathe. No, not now. It was too late for fleeing.  
Deeper inside, something still glowed with a soft, warm redness. He approached it cautiously, and he had no trouble seeing clearly despite the dark, for the desire of his heart had set his own eyes ablaze, his delirium shone for itself, showing the way.

But as he went deeper in, the heat rose. With every step it became harder to breathe, yet he forced himself closer and closer. When he finally reached the source of the faint gleam, his vision was blurred already, he panted and gasped for air. But it was worth it.  
The gleaming thing, was in fact a beautiful, red flower. He wondered, how could a lovely blossom still live here, where no light reached, no water, no air. But it was here nonetheless, its beauty unmatched, its gleam soft, but unwavering. And he marvelled to see such fair a thing thrive in this realm of shadows. And thriving it was indeed; blooming, moving, breathing, opening its petals to him. Suddenly the lack of air became too overwhelming, the desire became too strong once more, clouding his mind. Without knowing what he was doing, he stepped closer and reached out to touch it, to feel its power of life surging through him.

He jerked his hands back, and an unearthly scream escaped his throat.  
"It burns! Help me, it burns!" he screamed frantically, but he could not even let go of the flower, it stuck to his hands, it stuck to his skin, it burned and burned on, gnawing itself into his flesh, burning his bones, burning his soul, consuming thought, and love, and memory...  
"Father, help me! Help!"

"_He is not here to help you, Son of Fire!"  
_Cold fingers wrapped around his burning hands, but somehow they did nothing to cease the pain. Coldness wrapped itself around his entire body, chilling the rushing blood in his veins, yet it did nothing to ease his suffering.  
He closed his eyes against the roaring of the icy winds of Thangorodrim, and he would have done anything to close his ears against the icy words of its master.  
"_What a spectacle! Pity such fiery dreams are bound to end in ash!"  
_He wanted to defy him, to answer something. A spark of his soul flickered in his eyes as he raised his head, but it died in the wind like unsheltered candle light, for he was unsheltered himself, so bare, so exposed. He dropped his head back on his chest, failing to even remember why he raised it.  
"_Such is the nature of burning dreams, child. For a while they warm your soul, they enpower you. But there is no telling why, when and how the comforting flames shall burst into a roaring firestorm, consuming all else, leaving blackness and ashes behind."  
_There was silence now, the dark lord waited, and in this sudden moment of clarity Maedhros understood that not even Melkor knew now, what he was waiting for. They locked gazes, one frozen, one burned. And there was silence.

The moment passed, he shut his eyes with force, and sunk towards unconscious sleep, wishing desperately for its numb darkness to bring peace.  
"_Wake up, Son of Fire! Wake, for no dreams of flames can console you now against my wrath! Soon you shall find just how alike ice and fire are!"_


	3. Swan Song

**Swan Song**

That day, that night, they were invincible. No curse, no fear, no darkness scarred them, victorious dreams and vengeful desire warmed their hearts. The blood of the Teleri had not yet dried on their ships, their tears have not yet stopped, when the glorious Noldor already set foot on the hither shores. Aman was already far away, and Maedhros missed nothing of it, save his friend.  
How he hoped for Fingon, how he wished they were together already, sharing in the great deeds, he was sure would come. Oh, ever he was right about his premonitions...

The night was cold and despite his fiery enthusiasm, he shivered constantly. It took all his will to master himself in front of his father, but master himself he did, for he was sure he would be laughed at, or even sent back, had he dared to display even a shadow of weakness.  
He remembered how full with childish hope he was, as he went to talk to Father.  
And he remembered the moment when Feanor looked at him, gazed at him with those powerful eyes, and although he always thought of his father as a beacon of hopeful, unstoppable fire, all of a sudden his heart chilled, his soul grew cold.

He remembered the beautiful white ships, sparkling in the darkness. He remembered the heat they provided, burning loudly and infinitely. Oh, it was no help, no good, he was cold to his very soul, not only shivering now, but shaking uncontrollably and unstoppably despite the warmth. He stood alone, turning away from the rest, away from his brothers, his father, away from the ships, staring into the unknown darkness. What was to become of him without Fingon? His valiant cousin was all the things he wished to be, his better part, his one true friend.

The air was thick now with smoke, but he felt something else, a distinctive smell he did not know before. Smell of death. The foul scent of beautiful, free, white swans, rotting in decay.  
He splashed a handful of cold, dark water on his face to clear his head, then watched as the water quieted and mirrored him, despite the dark. At first, his face looked like he would look. But suddenly another ship was set on fire, another heat-wave boiled the black water, and his face was broken, contorted into a dreadful mask, into a million ripples.

"_Maitimo, where are you now? Maitimo? I think not. Not anymore."  
_Somehow he refused to answer that call, that hateful voice. Even if a part of him was aware of the icy taunting, he did not wake up, rather stayed deep underwater, swimming in his black well of unconscious dreams. There was more to be seen, more to be remembered of that night.

He could not despair yet, for then, they were invincible. But he was in pain. Whether the killing he did and regretted, or the desolation of something crafted so beautifully and with such care, or the loss of dear Fingon saddened him more, he could not tell.  
He could see his brothers, busying themselves with the task ahead, carrying out Father's orders, murdering for him, like they did before.  
He walked away from them, far away, into the wilderness, until he found a tall and lonely cliff, and he suddenly felt an urge to climb it, to rise above the suffocating darkness of the forest. He fell back several times before reaching the top. But when he finally did, he lay there for awhile on his back, panting, staring up into the cold and distant stars. His hands and knees were bloody and cut, but he did not feel any pain at all, only a curious, new sensation. He felt as if he were spinning and falling upwards, into the sky.

Here, from the top, he could see them all. Small figures, running restlessly along the shores.  
A graceful ship, the last one standing; a blazing, white swan, glistening against the sea of black water, a star against the sky, doomed to drown in the ocean of flames.  
One tall figure watching over the destruction. And for once, he cursed the keen sight he was given, for he could see, even from up here that the figure smiled at the flames. A beautiful, burning, haunting, dazzling smile. A frightening, cruel smile, a mad smile. The smile of his father.

And as the last swan was set on fire, he burst into a song. He mourned the ships and mourned their destruction. He sang of all the pain he felt, for all the wrong he had done. He mourned the passing of his grandfather and he sang of Fingon and all the rest they left behind; golden Galadriel and lovely, swift Aredhel... And he sang of a love lost forever; a song of shame and disappointment, a song of cruel, unchangeable fate.

Strong, cold, eastern wind blew that night upon the shores of Aman. But those of the Teleri who stood still awake, crying their losses into the unforgiving night air, suddenly felt comforted by that wind, for it had brought them a melody of sorrow, pain and regret, a tune for their own hearts. But when the wind died, their suffering renewed, and never again were they comforted by the Eastern Wind, never again could it bring them such peace.

Cold was the night upon the endless, cruel Helcaraxe, and frozen were the hearts of the Noldor who walked upon its ice. The image of ships on fire burned into the minds of those who were left behind.  
A sense of utter betrayal washed over Fingon once more, and his fingers curled into an angry fist. Feanor would regret this; he would pay for this, and all those traitorous sons of his would burn with him, burn in fire, in exchange for this frozen world they forced them into.  
But as he was about to curse them, as he raised his head, suddenly he felt the caress of the Eastern Wind on his face, and it was warm and salty as if the wind itself had cried hot tears. And in it, he heard the voice of his dear friend, lost and lonely, bound by blood and oath, already burning with shame, already suffering from the pain he wished upon him.  
And Fingon uncurled his fingers with force and released a sigh. He would not curse his friend. That was not his way...

Upon the western shores of Arda, upon a desolated, weather-beaten cliff, Maedhros, son of Feanor ended his song then, the first and the last he ever sang... And it seemed that the whole world quieted afterwards.

"_Russandol!"  
_He moaned. Such odd numbness was upon him. He could not feel. "Leave me be!"  
"_Are you not cold so high up here, Russandol? A tiny, lonely flame, up in the cold air, lost and abandoned... Such a sad, sad sight."  
_Oh, how the truth of those words hurt him. Lonely, little flame, he was indeed. So very lost, so utterly alone. But as he remembered his dreams, heat rose to his cheeks.  
"I am not cold."  
"_Not yet, then. But shame is your only fuel now, and I am afraid it will not keep you warm for long! Until then, Son of Fire!"_

And Maedhros hung alone now in the nothingness, with not even Darkness to keep him company.

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_ **AN: Maitimo is another name for Maedhros, given to him by his mother. It means "well-shaped one". Russandol is an epesse given to Maedhros, which supposedly refers to his height ("the tall"). Both of these names are used here by Morgoth, who deliberately mocks Maedhros with their meanings.**_


End file.
